that's what happens when you treat yourself as the famous executioner of Anne Boleyn, not the axe-man but the sword-smith who tiptoed to feel the breeze in socks, and cut, the, head, neatly, a cascading swing of the guillotine! indeed anyone who believes in posthumous conceptualisation of karma, believes in heaven & hell.*
as i speak of the culprit who left me with a star trekking: it's not me you have to fear... it's my mother... that tarantula will scalp you and circumcise you - or as i am aware sharing a body with her; it's not me you are to fear; god-forbid i care to know what awaits you, **** the love via the crucifix - i'm in awe in what awaits you... think of your mother when you lie to her... while i satiate her hungry ambitions in the bedroom... camel jockey more like a camel *******. have your little disciples to hand over - suddenly everyone in England was instructed in the practice of psychiatry! ******* *****, ignoramus and ****** d'uh! i fudged a bump on me'h skull d'uh! well, carpenter you shall be! but those idiots in England cared for a Kalashnikov of opinion that civilised concern made due with un-engaged diacritics: arguments in heaven is a peace in hell, and i'm in it - suburbia all-around with talk of the enigma that's cricket.